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<title>Fate's Mistake by Cantaloupe (Melancholy_Incarnate)</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25101700">Fate's Mistake</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melancholy_Incarnate/pseuds/Cantaloupe'>Cantaloupe (Melancholy_Incarnate)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Major Character Injury, Murder, Murder Mystery, Muteness, Temporary Muteness, Trauma, Victorian</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 06:34:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,110</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25101700</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melancholy_Incarnate/pseuds/Cantaloupe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning of December third dawned bright and clear- an unusually pleasant English winter morning promising a good day at the London house of Earl Whitehill. The sun shone gold and glittering on snow-covered lawns and eaves dripping icicles and windows etched with frost. On such a fine day, who would believe that a massacre would take place under the Queen's very nose? Certainly not the Earl and his daughter. </p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sebastian Michaelis/Original Female Character(s), Sebastian Michaelis/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Fate's Mistake</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A short introductory chapter.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The morning of December third dawned bright and clear- an unusually pleasant English winter morning promising a good day at the London house of Earl Whitehill. The sun shone gold and glittering on snow-covered lawns and eaves dripping icicles and windows etched with frost. On such a fine day, who would believe that a massacre would take place under the Queen's very nose? Certainly not the Earl and his daughter. </p><p>The day began as usual, with Emily going to wake her mistress and Millicent and Charlie setting the table for breakfast. Emily's shoes made little noise on the green runner as she hurried toward Miss Whitehill's bedroom, absently fantasizing about Charlie proposing to her (sure to happen any week now, she was certain). She dreamed of diamonds and white dresses, of true love and a future she hoped to spend with her beau. How tragic indeed that her thoughts and dreams were so violently cut short with a knife slash to the throat. Her tray of morning tea clattered to the ground with the telltale tinkle of shattered porcelain, spilling the tea she had so painstakingly prepared all over the pristine wooden floor. </p><p>"Emily? Emily, are you alright?" came a call from Miss Whitehill, voice scratchy with sleep.</p><p>The servant tried to scream, whether to warn her mistress or just wail with the fear of dying, she knew not which. But the only sound she could make was a wheeze. And she died.</p><p>A long minute ticked by on the clock in the hall, tick tock, tick tock, the normally innocuous sound echoing ominously. Miss Whitehill tiptoed to the door and peeked out. Her eyes went wide with shock, not quite registering what she was seeing. The once-green rug was black with still-warm blood, mixing with spilled tea. Shattered china littered the floor, creating a treacherous field of shrapnel before her door. And there was Emily. She lay face down, limbs bent in ways a living person would not tolerate, spattered with her own blood. She tried to stifle a scream, but the horror before her could not be witnessed in silence. She thought she might vomit. A thousand thoughts raced through her head all at once.</p><p><em>Oh God, oh God! What happened? Who did it? Why?</em> Then she thought of one question nearly sufficient to make her heart stop. <em>Where are they?</em></p><p>The taste of bile was sour in her mouth as she snuck around the fresh corpse outside her door, knowing full well that she might suffer the same fate in a few minutes' time. </p><p>Down the stairs she went, swiftly, silently. Her eyes darted from shadow to shadow, searching for the assailant she likely wouldn't see until too late. </p><p>"Well well well, what have we here? The earl's dear daughter, wandering about the halls? You really should know better than to go looking for trouble." The voice was smooth and low, dangerously amused, coming from not two feet behind her. She froze, unable to turn around for fear of what she might see. What they might do to her if she did. "Wonder what the old earl would do," said the man, a hand wrapping delicately around her throat, "if I were to take a bite." She choked on a sob and could practically feel the wicked grin of her captor. "Oh no no no! Don't cry, sweet little morsel! That just won't do," chuckled the man, wiping away her tears. </p><p>"What are you going to do with me?"</p><p>"Manners," the man insisted, tightening his grip on her neck.</p><p>"I-I'm sorry! What are you going to do with me, <em>sir?"</em></p><p>The hand on her throat loosened.</p><p>"There you go! Good little morsels get their questions answered."</p><p>She was silent, waiting for an answer, but none came. Mustering her courage once more, she asked, "Are you going to tell me, sir?"</p><p>Her assailant laughed as he walked her through the hall toward the grand dining room. "Of course not!" He said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You weren't polite. I had to <em>make</em> you be polite. Oh, and we're here. How exciting!"</p><p>The doors to the dining room were pulled open from the inside, revealing a tableau of violence so gruesome it looked as though hell itself had descended upon her home. The mangled bodies of the servants decorated the center of the room in a large circle, drawing one's eye to the culmination that sat upon the polished oak table. The tablecloth, once white, was stained with crimson and artfully draped over the cooling corpse of her father. Loops of grayish-purple intestine spilled out of his stomach, livid against his waxy skin. They had been wound about his hands and neck, making him look rather like a man with a noose, waiting for his execution. Miss Whitehill was forced to her knees and promptly threw up and averted her eyes, but the man behind her grabbed her by the hair and wrenched her head up. The sight was of the kind that made one believe in God and know he was somewhere else.</p><p>"Don't you like it? My brothers and sisters worked so very hard..."</p><p>"I hate it! And I hate you!" she cried between sobs. </p><p>"Join us. Eat of the pomegranate and become a goddess."</p><p>"No. I'd rather die than join you," she spat.</p><p>The man behind her stiffened and his voice, once cheerful and bright, was suddenly cold.</p><p>"Very well. Raguel, kill her."</p><p>"Wait, no-" She flung her right hand up just in time for it to be caught up under her chin by the garrote. Tighter and tighter it pulled, cutting into her hand, her neck. </p><p>"So sorry," said her first captor, walking around to stand in front of her. He was tall and wore a mask with an angelic visage, trimmed with white feathers. She had a feeling he was grinning a predatory grin beneath that pristine mask, but she had no way to prove it. Besides, it was becoming fast apparent that if she didn't take quick action, she would die lying on the floor. Of course, there was little she could do, but still she kicked and flailed her arms, reaching for something, anything.</p><p><em>Crunch</em>. The man before her stepped on her hand, grinding, grinding, grinding. Her bones turned to jagged splinters and she would have screamed, were it not for the wire squeezing the life from her. Her face was hot, burning with old blood, blood that ran down her right hand, her neck, everywhere.</p><p>"A pity you couldn't join us. Ah well, can't have everything, can we."</p><p>Then there was only blackness.</p>
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